Rome’s Fallen Eagle (36 page)

One man in particular caught Vespasian’s eye: tall and powerfully built, his broad chest and muscular arms daubed in swirls of blue-green vitrum and his hair spiked high with lime, he stood proud in his speeding chariot, punching a sword into the air, urging each wave on down the slope towards the Roman lines. ‘That chieftain must be either Caratacus or Togodumnus.’

‘Running around in circles in chariots isn’t going to get them anywhere,’ Magnus observed. ‘Why don’t he just order them to charge?’

‘I think that their noble warriors in the chariots have to have the honour of being the first to engage the enemy. They’re expecting us to send a few champions forward for some single combat. According to Caesar it’s how they like to start battles.’

‘Well, they’re going to have to get used to our way now. Our lads haven’t even bothered to waste any javelins on them.’

A rumble of cornua relayed along the line; the auxiliaries’ standards dipped one by one, ordering the advance. The Batavians and Gauls, whose great-grandfathers had so fiercely opposed Rome and her conquests, now marched forward to conquer in her name.

The chieftain jumped from his chariot and, facing back up the hill to his massed warriors, extended his arms, sword in one hand, shield in the other, as if embracing every man. The chariots hurtled away, leaving their warriors on the field with their chieftain as slowly he turned to face the oncoming enemy.

The Britons charged.

It was a charge unlike any Vespasian had seen or heard before: wild, unco-ordinated, and fearsome in its recklessness. With a roar that would shake the dark realm of Pluto himself and with no thought for maintaining lines for mutual support, thousands
of warriors, smeared in outlandish blue-green designs, waving long slashing swords above the spiked hair on their heads, ran pell-mell down the slope, each trying to outdo his comrades for the honour of being the first to draw blood. They were oblivious to danger as hundreds were punched down by the first javelin volley that scythed through them, fifty paces out. They hurdled their skewered dead and wounded, who crashed to the ground in sprays of crimson, splintering the shafts that impaled them, and came on as a second volley tore through their massed, unprotected flesh, thumping them off their feet, backs arched, teeth bared, screaming their last.

With their javelins thrown the auxiliaries halted, weight on their left legs, bracing their oval shields before them and readying their swords; the rear ranks closed up to support the men before them as the shock of impact shuddered through the mile-long line.

Vespasian held his breath; the cohorts buckled slowly in places and then straightened as centurions bellowed their men forward, leading by example, fending off the slashes and downward cuts of their opponents’ long swords and dealing out death in return with their spathae, jabbing and cutting before them as the Britons strove to cleave through the line.

But the superior number and weight of the Britons did not tell; their long swords were not designed for close-quarters work and once they had crashed their shields into those of their opponents and swiped at their heads they pulled back so as to be able to work their weapons properly: slicing down or across from above their heads as if in single combat, not as part of a shield wall. The line settled; the charge was absorbed and cornua rumbled over the screaming: Plautius had signalled the II Augusta and XIIII Gemina to advance and relieve the auxiliaries.

‘Advance in open order!’ Vespasian shouted at the command-post
cornicen
. A series of rumbling notes was repeated throughout the legions’ cohorts. Standards dipped and the II Augusta advanced for its first taste of combat with this new and savage foe.

Vespasian eased his horse forward to keep pace with the advance, feeling a pride that he had never known before as it
came home to him that he was commanding a full legion in a set-piece battle. His whole life had come down to this moment and now he would find out if he was worthy of it. He steeled himself, determined not to give Plautius cause to rebuke him; there would be no more mistakes.

‘This is going to take some timing,’ Magnus muttered from behind him.

‘What are you still doing here?’

‘I was wondering that myself.’

‘Well, if you’re staying don’t distract me because yes, you’re right, it is going to take some timing.’ Vespasian turned his concentration back to the advance of the five cohorts in the front line. They were in open order with every second file of four men removed and placed alternately in the file next to it, leaving man-wide gaps.

Thirty paces before the II Augusta reached their hard-pressed auxiliaries Vespasian looked down at his cornicen marching alongside him. ‘Prepare to release!’

The man blasted out three notes, which were taken up by his fellows in the front rank cohorts; standards signalled and the first four men of each line pulled back their right arms, feeling the weight of their pila. With ten paces to go the two rear men of each of the auxiliaries’ files broke off and sprinted down the gaps in the II Augusta.

‘Release!’ Vespasian shouted.

With a deep note from the cornu the centurions bellowed the order and more than a thousand pila soared over the heads of the auxiliaries to slam down, with lead-weighted impetus, onto their adversaries, crunching through skulls, sternums and shoulders with brutal and sudden violence.

The neighbouring XIIII Gemina’s volley struck an instant later as the Hamorians started pouring their arrows in from the flank, felling hundreds; the Britons all along the line wavered for a moment. It was all that was needed. The remaining auxiliaries turned and headed down the gaps in the relieving legions’ lines, which were closed by every other man in the file of eight rushing to fill them as soon as their auxiliary comrades were through.

Here and there Britons managed to break into formations causing little pockets of havoc within the regimented ranks and files of the cohorts; but these were soon dealt with.

Vespasian glanced down at the cornicen. ‘Rear ranks, release.’

Another few notes, repeated throughout the legion, and the rear two men of each file hefted their pila over their comrades’ heads as they began their mechanical sword work stabbing at the vitals of the howling enemy.

Barbed pilum heads on the end of thin iron shafts, designed to maximise the penetrative pressure of the weighted weapon, again rained down on the Britons, sheering through many, causing the ground beneath them, already churned with blood, urine and faeces, to become even more treacherous.

Fresh to the fight and having not seen proper action for over two years, the legionaries of the II Augusta went about their business with vicious and enthusiastic efficiency, the body-count before them escalating as they stabbed and stamped their way forward supported by rapid volleys from the Hamorians that spat into the rear ranks of their foes and any that tried to slip around the flank.

The combined weight and tactics of the two legions in unison was too much for warriors used to fighting as individuals and they began splintering off, firstly in ones and twos, then in scores and hundreds, until what was left of the army was running back up the hill with almost as much speed and noise as it had descended it, leaving thousands lying still or writhing in the foul-smelling mud.

‘Sound halt!’ Vespasian ordered.

The cornu blared out and its call was echoed. The II Augusta came to a stop and jeered its vanquished enemies as they raced away having learnt what it means to face a legion of Rome.

But the jeers soon faded as a new force, as large, if not larger, appeared on a hill two miles to the north, facing the XX Legion; it would now be their turn to show their mettle.

‘Relieve line!’ Vespasian called.

Another rumble through the legion caused the rear five cohorts to advance, allowing their tired and bloodied comrades
through their formations and replacing them as a fresh front line, should the legion be called upon again that day. Behind them the Gallic and Batavian auxiliaries had begun re-forming and receiving fresh javelins from the quartermasters’ mule-drawn carts stationed in the rear.

The II Augusta watched as the new arrivals began to work themselves up into a battle fever, bellowing courage into their hearts.

‘What’s happened to their chariots?’ Magnus asked once he noticed their absence.

‘I don’t know,’ Vespasian replied, shaking his head. ‘But the real question is: why didn’t they attack together? They could have thrown sixty thousand men at us at once.’

‘Still wouldn’t have been enough, though.’

‘No, probably not. They were idiotic to face us in the open; why didn’t they just wait at the river? It can’t be more than three or four miles away.’

‘I’m sure they’re going to oblige us by doing that very thing; as will that lot once the lads of the Twentieth have introduced them to their iron.’

From out of the middle of the new arrivals strode a single warrior; although he was far away and it was impossible to discern any of his physical attributes, Vespasian understood from the roaring of the tribesmen that this was a man of great importance and smiled coldly. ‘My guess is that’s the brother of whoever was leading our opponents; I think that I detect a sibling rivalry.’

‘Ah, that’s why they didn’t wait; nothing worse than sharing the glory with your brother – and it looks like yours is going to outshine you today.’

To their right the XIIII Gemina were preparing to support the XX next to them as the horde of Britons on top of the hill began to fan out into a wider frontage. The Gemina’s two lines of cohorts had already exchanged places and now their auxiliaries were being brought forward to take up again the first shock of the wild charge.

They did not have to wait long. With a roar that was blood-curdling even at two miles distant, the dark shadow of warriors
began to flow down the hill with a viscous, ever-changing front, like molten pitch being poured from a tub onto an enemy below.

On they came as the cloud of a first volley of javelins from the XX Legion’s Spanish and Aquitanian auxiliaries darkened the sky above them to dissipate quickly into a sharp-pointed rain. Vespasian watched with silent admiration; the charge refused to falter as the first and then the second volley hailed down on it.

‘Sir!’ a young voice shouted as the charge hit home with a marked increase in volume.

Vespasian looked around to see the thin-stripe tribune from Plautius’ staff, sitting on a sweating horse, saluting.

‘Yes, Tribune Alienus?’

‘The general compliments you on your actions so far and asks that you move your auxiliaries forward to threaten the enemy’s flank. He believes that will cause them to break; once they do you are to follow them up with all possible haste and try and catch them as they cross the Afon Cantiacii.’

‘Thank you, tribune, you may tell the general that it will be done.’

Alienus saluted again before galloping off as Vespasian issued the orders for Maximus, the camp prefect, to relay to the waiting messengers of the legion’s cavalry detachment and then to oversee the manoeuvre.

The horsemen sped off and Vespasian turned his attention back to the fighting on his right. The auxiliary line had held and, with a rumble of cornua, the XIIII and the XX were advancing to relieve them.

Magnus gave a wry smile. ‘You have to hand it to the army, when it comes to tactics they don’t win any prizes for innovation.’

‘If something works then why change it?’ Vespasian replied, admiring the precision of the manoeuvre as the rear ranks of auxiliaries broke off and filed back through their legions’ lines.

By the time both legions were fully engaged the II Augusta’s auxiliaries, still smeared in fresh blood, were jogging past Vespasian, equipment jangling and feet pounding, in columns eight abreast and on through the gaps created between the front
rank cohorts of the legion. As they emerged onto the open ground the columns fanned out to either side in a fluid motion of precisely drilled soldiery to form a four-deep line, each unit abutting its neighbour. The shouts of their centurions and optiones as they dressed the ranks were lost beneath the battle’s bellows, screams and clanging, metallic clashes, as if herds of cattle were being slaughtered simultaneously to the accompaniment of thousands of blacksmiths maniacally ringing down blows upon their anvils.

With the ranks straight, the auxiliary line began its advance from the left, co-ordinated by Maximus, wheeling until it was at forty-five degrees and then moving forward at the double towards the Britons’ exposed flank.

Vespasian glanced up the hill ahead; there was no sign of the defeated force. ‘Slow advance!’

Again the cornu sounded and again the II Augusta moved forward steadily up the hill in support of their auxiliaries as they closed with the enemy. The sight of a fresh force closing in on the battle put heart into the men of the XIIII and XX Legions and they renewed their efforts as, simultaneously, the Britons wavered; the faint-hearted turned to flee back up the slope rather than take on the new enemy. Panic began to spread through the mass of warriors and more and more turned to run until only the most blood-hungry were left to face the mechanical sword work of the legions; they were soon despatched with merciless and violent efficiency.

And then suddenly it was over.

Maximus recalled the II Augusta’s auxiliaries; they had not even needed to charge, their presence alone had been enough to turn the battle. They moved swiftly across the path of the advancing legion and took up position two hundred paces to its front.

To Vespasian’s right, the XIIII and XX both relieved their front rank cohorts and allowed their auxiliaries through to form a protective line ahead of them before continuing their advance so that the three legions were at a slant with the II Augusta in the lead.

Vespasian sat bolt upright on his mount, his heart thumping in his chest. ‘Advance at the double!’ he called down to the cornicen, revelling in the pride he felt as his legion led the way west, chasing a beaten but not yet defeated foe.

The message rumbled out and within a few heartbeats the legion had quickened its pace, their footsteps pounding the already trampled grass. Ahead, the auxiliary cohorts responded and started to jog up the last hundred paces of the hill as a lone warrior appeared at its summit. Within moments the warrior was joined by a multitude of figures, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, stretching across the length of the hill-brow. The auxiliaries halted and for the third time that day dressed their ranks for combat.